A Field of Honor
by Broadwaylover5300
Summary: IQ returns home from Vietnam, only to find that the homefront can be just as dangerous.


**Hi! I figured since I dealt with Vietnam seriously in Turbulence, I'd look at it in a humorous light in this one-shot! It's going to be a very different little story from what I usually write, but it's good to try new things!**

IQ walked into the head psychiatrist's office and sat down in the chair that the psychiatrist indicated. He had been in this institute ever since he had returned home from Vietnam, trying, if not to get over the memories, at least soften them somewhat so that he didn't become like the other veterans who had returned home, the ones who had those dreams, those ones that placed them right back in the jungle and in the swamps, left to see their friends die again and again for the rest of their lives. IQ didn't want to become one of those veterans, so here he was, at the end of the five months he had spent in this institute.

"So, you are leaving us today, are you?" the psychiatrist smiled. IQ nodded without saying anything.

The psychiatrist waited for a response from IQ for a few minutes. Finding that he wasn't going to receive one, he plastered a huge smile across his face and reached for a box on his desk.

"We believe these belong to you," he said, pulling out a dented helmet and a picture that IQ had broken, a picture of his mother and his militaristic, gun-toting father, the man who was always worried about an invasion of the U.S. from one country or another. IQ supposed that maybe he couldn't be blamed for the latter, seeing as how he had lived in Los Angeles when the great, later proven to be false, Los Angeles air attack by the Japanese had occurred on February 24, 1942, less than a year than from when Pearl Harbor had occurred, but, seeing that 

his father was the one who had pushed him into enlisting in the army, IQ held a lot of animosity toward his father, and he now hated that picture.

IQ frowned as he put the picture in his suitcase and took the helmet under his arms as he stood up.

"Now, I know I've already paid your institute for the treatment, but is there anything else I can do for you, particularly? I want to thank you for all you've done for me," IQ said.

The psychiatrist smiled as he said, "My only reward is the fact that you'll be walking out of here!" he exclaimed.

xxx

IQ stepped out of the huge gray building into the bright sunlight and made his way down the stairway that stood in front of the building, making his way down toward the road. He took in the sunlight as he walked down the stairs, looking around, trying to start to re-acquaint himself with civilian life outside the institute.

Suddenly, IQ jumped as a kid jumped out from behind the bushes that stood in front of the building, aimed a toy gun at him, and yelled, "BANG! BANG!"

Reflexively, IQ's hand immediately went to where his gun would usually be, but, realizing that it wasn't there and how ridiculous he must look, he smiled, waved at the kid and walked down to the bus stop at the corner. When the bus finally arrived, IQ stepped aboard and offered the driver a dollar bill.

The driver sneered. "What's that?" he said in a tone of voice that sounded as if IQ had offered him a dead rat.

"It's a dollar," IQ replied. "Can I get change, please?"

The driver sighed a heavily exaggerated sigh as he said, "This is an exact-change bus. I don't have change! I can take your dollar, but you won't be getting any change!"

IQ sighed in submission as he nodded and made his way to a seat in the middle of the bus. IQ just sat there, looking out the window as the buildings and trees went by.

IQ had no idea how long he had been looking outside when he was suddenly jolted by a gruff voice saying, "Is this seat taken?"

IQ turned in his seat to find a tall, bearded construction worker-type standing in the aisle in front of his seat. IQ shook his head and scooted over a little so the man could sit more comfortably.

The man sat down and looked IQ over. Noticing IQ's helmet, the man asked, "Why aren't you wearing it?"

IQ shrugged without saying a word.

The man's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "You're not yellow, are you?"

IQ shook his head, and the man smiled.

"At least there's some of us in the world," the man said. "I mean, look at this bus! What do you see? Nothing but yellow trash!" With that, he grabbed the long hair of a man 

sitting in front of them and jerked it back. The man immediately took offense to having his hair jerked, and a fight was about to erupt when a man suddenly burst aboard the bus, carrying a sub-machine gun.

"Everybody stay in your seats! This bus is going to Cuba!" he yelled.

The construction worker immediately stood up, only to be gunned down by the hijacker. The construction worker wasn't seriously hurt, he was more stunned as he fell to the bus floor. IQ put his helmet on and quickly dove for a bus door, pushed it open and dove out of the bus, doing a complete face-plant into the sidewalk. IQ got up, his face bleeding, and slowly made his way home.

xxx

IQ pushed the door of his home open and shuffled into the house. He made his way into the living room of the house, in which his father sat, in his old marine uniform, in his wheelchair, among his beloved gun racks, loaded with every type of gun known to man. His father gasped as he saw IQ come in, with his bleeding face and his helmet on.

"Son, what happened?" IQ's father asked. Suddenly, his father's eyes widened. "They've invaded, haven't they? The Soviets! I told everybody that that would happen, but nobody believed me! I bet they wish they'd listened now!"

IQ started to try to prove his dad wrong, but didn't get the words out fast enough as his father threw him a .44 Magnum and a box of bullets.

"Here! Lock and load!" his father yelled.

IQ just stood there for a second, holding the bullets and gun, before his father yelled again, "What are you waiting for, son? Go outside and take up your emergency post!"

IQ slowly and reluctantly loaded his gun as he walked outside. However, instead of standing outside the front door as his father had told him so many times to do, he threw the gun as far as he could and walked back to the institute. He walked in and walked up to the receptionist.

The receptionist looked up and smiled. "May I help you?" she asked.

"Yes, I'd like to check myself back in," IQ replied. "America is worse than Vietnam!"


End file.
